


re-attached wrists

by notallwindows



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: F/F, Interns & Internships, Maureen tries not to die, Non-binary character, Swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:13:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallwindows/pseuds/notallwindows
Summary: “They don’t last long, do they?” Michelle said, tone sinister. “The interns. You’re not going to last very long.”





	1. Chapter 1

The bell by the door dinged as Maureen walked into Dark Owl Records. They had heard that it was the only record shop in Night Vale.  

A strange track was playing, a distorted recording of the harrumphing of elephants. The hanging ceiling lights were covered with a veneer of black foil, leaving no area without shadow. Instead of appearing crafty or dingy, the store gave off the look of having been lovingly put together by an oddball owner. Maureen thought the fake blood on the walls was lovely. Very refreshing, very different from the malls they were used to back home.

There were shelves upon shelves of records, with some arranged haphazardly into wooden bins lying on the floor. Maureen wondered how the records were arranged: by genre? artist? year? They rifled through one of the bins. There were none of the artists they were familiar with. Instead, obscure titles. _Birthday Party ‘96. The Great Hidden Sea of the Unconscious. Beethoven’s Billboard Hits. My plants drinking water. Recording of me making a shelf for My Sylvanian Family. Taylor Swift: 1879._

It was all very charming. Almost as if the owner simply kept their personal stash of music in the bins. Maureen debated internally if they should approach the bored looking person behind the counter to ask where the store kept its Rock selection.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Paramore.”

“You’re not from around here, are you,” the person behind the counter said, leaning lazily against the register. They were looking at Maureen from under their eyelashes, impatience fixed on their face. Not quite a question, but an accusation.

Maureen felt a frisson of fear, the hairs on their arms standing up. Instinctively, their hand went to the sword in the holster by their waist.

“How can you tell?”

“Well,” the cashier said, un-slouching slowly and leaning up against the register. Maureen found themself staring at the matte black coating their lips. _It went well with the black of their hair_ , Maureen thought. _They could almost be a vampire._

“For one, you think we sell Paramore, or _Paraless_ , or whatever you’re looking for. What’s your name, dear?”

“Maureen.”

“You’re the new intern for Cecil, aren’t you? The one who just started last week.”

“Mr Palmer? How do you know?”

Maureen hand went still on their sword. They fought back a headache. _Urgh, the internship._

Moving into a new town in the middle of senior year was hard enough, but finding out they didn’t have enough credits to graduate took the cake. Interning at the radio station was the only way to get the credits to pass, but that came with its own downside. Namely, that not a single intern before them were still living.

The person laughed, the tinkling bright sound of windchimes. There was an edge to their laugh, dark and deprecating. _Windchimes made of broken glass, sharp edges glinting in the light._

“ _Mister Palmer_? You’re really new here, aren’t you. Cecil spoke about you last night, on the radio. Everyone knows you’re the new intern.”

“You listen?” Maureen was curious: while it was assumed that everyone of the town did tune in to Cecil Palmer’s show, they had never met anyone who spoke about listening.

“Hell no I don’t,” the person said, pulling a face. “I just listen to the weather, so I know what music to pull from the store.”

Silence.

“They don’t last long, do they?” they said, tone sinister. “The interns. You’re not going to last very long.”

Maureen felt a visceral shock travel through their body. _How had the person known?_ They had thought that they would be the only one bearing this terrible secret. Flipping through the Register of Radio Station Interns. Seeing nothing but causes of death; ‘Deceased: Drowning’, ‘Deceased: Vaporised’, ‘Deceased: Shredded to Death’. Even Cecil Palmer seemed to be oblivious to the abnormally high mortality rates of his interns.

_“Well,” he would say, “Maureen, you kids these days are just so soft! Back in my day, I ran all of Leonard Burton’s errands. Now, you interns just drop like flies!”_

The person’s eyes were intent, gazing without blinking into Maureen’s. Maureen was drawn in by those steely black eyes, bright and laced with specks of light. They saw their own reflection in the pupils, looking uncertain. Caught off guard. Lost. And with a shock, they realised they were also relieved.

“You know!” Maureen exclaimed, tearing their gaze away. “You know!”

“I do. I know what happens, what always happens.”

“Please,” Maureen begged. “Help me avoid what happens. Help me survive the internship.”

“What do I get out of it?” the person said. In a flash, they had vaulted over the counter.

“I’ll treat you to lunch, or dinner,” Maureen said, hands coming off their sword. Extending towards the other person, in a gesture of friendship. “At Arby’s.”

“Ugh, Arby’s,” the cashier’s eyes rolled into the back of their skull, their mouth elongating into a sneer. Maureen saw that their exposed teeth were silky white against the black of their lips. What had Mr Palmer used to describe his scientist boyfriend’s teeth?

_Teeth like a military cemetery._

“So gauche. So,” the person paused, expression bored, “central kitchen.”

Maureen’s heart was hammering in their throat. _Thump thump. Thump. Thump thump thump._ They thought the cashier must have been able to hear it, if not for the recording of elephants roaring playing in the store.  

“I’m broke,” they said. “Look, I’m not even getting paid. I’m going to make Mr Palmer write me a recommendation after I complete the internship. That’s why I’m doing it. I need it to graduate.”

The other person’s eyes softened, imperceptibly. When they spoke, the edge from their voice was gone.

“Okay,” they said. “Arby’s it is.”

They reached for the keys of the register. The register clicked shut, locking with the solid sound of gears aligning.

“And my name’s Michelle,” she said. “Michelle Nguyen. Pronouns she, her.”

“Maureen,” Maureen said. “They, them.”

Michelle took their extended hand. Maureen could feel the cloying sweat on their hands. Michelle’s hand was cool and smooth. Maureen almost expected Michelle to wipe her hand down on her shirt after the exchange. But Michelle’s expression didn’t change, and she put her hand down without fuss.

“What are you waiting for?” she called to Maureen, walking away from the register. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I thought– I thought we were going after your shift ended.” Maureen was taken aback.

“My shift ends, like, whenever I want it to.” Michelle said, her sweet smile laced with haughty venom. “Here, watch.”

***

With ruthless efficiency, Michelle closed up shop, turning off the air-conditioning and pausing the track of the elephant’s roaring. She unceremoniously kicked the few lingering customers from her shop. They filed out without grumbling, almost as if they had known what to expect from her. Maureen doesn’t know why it took them this long to realise they had been talking to the owner of the shop.

Michelle grabbed the leather jacket hanging on the wall behind the cash register.

“You didn’t tell me you were the owner.”

“I thought it was apparent.”

“Won’t your customers mind?” Maureen said, squinting out at the setting sun as they walked out of the shop. What they wanted to ask was, _Aren’t you hot?_ Waves of heat were radiating off the sand. Michelle in a black leather jacket felt incongruous against the orange dunes before them.

Michelle made a face. “You couldn’t pay me to keep the shop open for people who listen to the Top 40’s and _Paraless_. Sellouts, every one of them.”

They walked to the solitary motorcycle parked by the small parking lot allocated to the store. Maureen had stared at it when they had first come to the record shop. Silver and black all over, it was sleek as a whisper. Maureen had marvelled at it, at the spotless leather seats and the intricate stirrup.

When they looked back at Michelle, Michelle’s black hair was already ensconced under a black and purple helmet. Michelle opened the trunk of the bike, and pulled out another silver helmet.

“Your first time riding a bike?” she challenged.

“No,” Maureen lied, tilting their face up to meet Michelle’s eyes as their hands grabbed the helmet. _Oh god_ , they prayed, feeling the clamminess of their hands, _please don’t leave fingerprints_ .  Michelle couldn’t be a year or two older than them. They were not going to show fear. _Or leave fingerprints on her helmet._

“Scared?”

“No.” Another lie.

“Good,” Michelle laughed, her laugh a light, lilting sound. She swung onto the seat in one smooth and practised motion, one of her feet pressing into the hard concrete of the parking lot while the other was resting comfortably in the foot peg.

“Well, like, get on, or whatever,” she drawled.

Maureen had never been taken for a ride on a motorcycle by someone as attractive as Michelle, and they felt their heart hammering in their chest. It was certainly a good distraction from the inevitability of death by internship. Fumbling with the buckle, they approached the bike.

“You’ve never actually ridden a bike before, have you?” Michelle asked, eyes on Maureen’s nervous hands. Her eyes were not unkind or mocking, as Maureen had expected.

They shook their head.

“Here, let me help you.”

Maureen moved closer, and Michelle unbuckled the strap easily, placing the dome on their head. It was heavier than Maureen expected.

“This will flatten my hair?” They said. It was not a question but a statement, a declaration of the inevitable.

“I’m afraid so,” Michelle said, her hands dealing expertly with the leather straps on Maureen’s chin. Her fingers barely brushed their chin before the job was done, and Michelle was taking a step back.

Back in the shop, Maureen had thought that her eyes were black. But out in the parking lot, she saw that Michelle’s eyes caught the light of the sun, and refracted it back in stunning shades of brown and ochre.  

“You’re going to have to leave your dagger in the trunk,” Michelle said, eyeing the rapier on Maureen’s waist.

“How dare you,” Maureen said, wounded. “It’s a sword.”

Wordlessly, they unbuckled the sword from its holster.

“Will it fit in the trunk?”

“Oh trust me it will. I’ve had like, bodies fit in the trunk before.” Her tone was nonchalant, but Michelle’s eyes were deadly serious.

Maureen stared at her, shocked. Looking at their expression, Michelle burst out laughing.

_The sound of windchimes. Of bell striking glass. The breeze of the ocean, a lifetime ago._

“Have you ever been to the sea?” Maureen asked. And then bit their lips. The question had slipped out nevertheless, in a moment of distraction and lowered defences.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Maureen cleared their throat, dropping their sword into the trunk. “I lived by the ocean, before. Before moving to Night Vale.”

“I don’t think oceans exist,” Michelle declared boldly. She took Maureen’s sword.

They did not know if there had ever been a body in the trunk, but the sword did fit, the casing making contact with the material lining the trunk with a dull clink.

“It’s easier to ride if you sit closer to me,” Michelle said. And then, she added, “or, whatever,” reflexively, almost as if an afterthought.

Maureen climbed into the seat behind Michelle, surprised that their gangly limbs had not gotten tangled somewhere in the process. They tried to leave a small distance between Michelle and themself.

“Closer,” Michelle said.

Maureen hesitated. And then, slowly, scooted forward. Now they had nowhere to put their head but on Michelle’s shoulder. And nowhere to put their hands on but Michelle’s–

“Put your arms around my waist,” Michelle said, revving the engine and kicking the kickstand up.

Maureen hugged their hands around Michelle’s stomach as the bike roared into life and the momentum threatened to throw them off. _Oh my god_ , they thought, _I can feel the warmth of Michelle’s back through the jacket._

“Everything okay?” Michelle shouted back at them, her voice muffled both by the visor and the wind. They were moving through the still heat, the shimmering pools of water on the road dissolving into nothing as they approached. Mirages. Maureen thought it would have been a lot hotter, but the sun was setting, and the cool dry wind whipped across the landscape, and they found themself wishing for a jacket like Michelle’s.

They looked at the speedometer, and saw the numbers steadily climbing. _Thirty, thirty-five. Forty._ Their fingers gripped tighter in front of Michelle’s abdomen.

“Very windy,” they shouted, forgetting they were right next to Michelle’s ear.

“Yeah,” Michelle flinched, making eye contact with Maureen in the small rear-view mirror, even as the wind whipped Michelle’s hair back, tickling Maureen’s neck.

“Sorry ‘bout my hair,” Michelle said.

“It’s okay,” Maureen said, focusing on the feeling of Michelle’s warm back against their front. The smell of leather, and the clean smell of Michelle’s shampoo.

The glowing Arby’s sign was getting closer, and Michelle pulled into the parking lot in a smooth curve that threw Maureen’s stomach, pulling in neatly within the white box drawn into concrete.

Michelle pushed the kickstart in position, and the bike sat leaning to its left. Maureen reluctantly let their hands go, releasing Michelle, who swung off the seat easily.

When Maureen’s feet hit the ground, they almost expected it to be swaying beneath their feet.

“Wow,” they said, as they grabbed Michelle for support.

Michelle removed her helmet, and removed Maureen’s helmet for them.

“Let’s go,” she said, tossing the helmets into the trunk.

 _Gentle! My sword’s in there!_ Maureen wanted to caution.

They found an empty table, and Michelle wiped it down with a napkin. The napkin came coated with a strange viscous slime, which made Maureen stare. Michelle merely shrugged it off.

“What are you getting?” Maureen asked.

“A GLBT sandwich,” Michelle said.

“GLBT?” It took Maureen a while to think of what Michelle could be referring to. “Do you mean BLT?”

Michelle looked at them oddly. “You’re like, forgetting the garlic cheese in BLT.”

It was little things like that in Night Vale that reminded Maureen they were in a new town, where the tables at Arby’s apparently came coated with thick, lucid slime. Where they served GLBT sandwiches.

The menu was otherwise normal, what they were used to. Maureen came back to the table a while later with the red tray of Arby’s, holding Michelle’s GLBT sandwich, some fries, and an iced coffee.

Michelle grabbed the sandwich, and shoved a handful of fries into her mouth.

“You’re not getting anything?” she said, in lieu of _thanks_.

Maureen noticed that her leather jacket was draped carefully over the back of her chair.

“Nah,” they said.

Michelle’s lips tightened. She took her sandwich and tore it in half, placing one half in front of Maureen.  
  
“Thanks, but I don’t eat meat,” Maureen said.

“Neither do I. It’s a garlic cheese-lettuce-brinjal-tomato sandwich.” Michelle was staring at them.

“Oh,” Maureen said, wrong-footed. “Where I lived, it was bacon, bacon lettuce tomato.”

“That’s strange,” Michelle said, taking a bite. Maureen watched, wondering if her black lipstick would smudge on the wrapping of the sandwich. It didn’t.

“Yeah,” Maureen agreed.

And then, leaning forward, “So, teach me how to survive the internship, as you said you would.”

“Okay” Michelle said, spraying crumbs out of her mouth. “The first thing is– for the love of the _BROWN STONE SPIRE,_  stop calling Cecil “ _Mister Palmer_ ”.”

She sounded bored and angry all at the same time. Maureen was taken aback for a moment, before they realised the anger was not at them, but at Cecil Palmer.

“I’ve been taught to keep a professional distance from my employers,” Maureen said, cautiously.

“Well, Cecil is hardly an employer, is he? If he doesn’t pay you, doesn’t value your work, doesn’t bother if you live or die–”

Michelle became animated, her voice rising until she abruptly cut herself off. Maureen was taken aback, and would have rushed to Cecil Palmer’s defence, if what Michelle had said hadn’t hit home, like a pitched ball straight to the stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. Her lips were quivering. “This still works me up.”

Maureen quietly reached a hand across the table, and placed it on top of Michelle’s. They gave a gentle squeeze.

“Thanks for getting angry on my behalf.”

“Your behalf?” Michelle looked up at Maureen. Her gaze was deeply melancholy, and Maureen’s heart ached. “This isn’t only on your behalf.”

Maureen stared at her.  
  
“I was an intern once, too.” Michelle said, soft and bitter. “A part of me is still in that radio station.”


	2. Chapter 2

Maureen felt floored. 

“What do you mean? By “a part of me”–”

Michelle’s eyes widened. And then Maureen saw her bite her cheek. 

“It’s a figure of speech!” Michelle said, looking annoyed. “A figure of speech, dammit! Don’t you have those, where you used to live? By the sea?”

Maureen didn’t know how to react. For a moment, they had thought that Michelle had meant that literally, because who knew with Night Vale? Their world had turned upside down with the suggestion that– before righting itself, precariously. 

“I didn’t see your name in the Intern register,” they said, finally, settling on something that was true and easy to say. 

“There was an exchange,” Maureen said, in an impersonal tone, like she was somewhere far away. “Something was lost, something was gained, Cecil doesn’t remember me, I got out alive.” 

She must have seen the wistful look on Maureen’s face, because she hastened to add, “I really wouldn’t recommend it. There are easier ways to get out alive.”             

Maureen’s hand was still on Michelle’s. They gave it a gentle squeeze, meaning to be reassuring. Michelle snatched it away, and there was an edge to her look.  _Don’t_. 

Maureen didn’t know what Michelle resorted to, and at that moment they knew that they probably never would.            

“Okay,” Maureen said, relenting. “Help me.”

“I will,” Michelle’s voice was earnest. “Promise to stay away from the station management.”  

“Station management?”                                      

“Don’t approach them.”

“Okay– I wasn’t planning to anyway.”  

“Good,” Michelle said, sounding tired. “Don’t.”

The rest of the time at Arby’s was spent discussing strategy. Maureen picked at her GLBT, reflecting idly that they had never had brinjal in a sandwich or burger before. 

“It’s in your best interest to keep Cecil happy, do whatever menial tasks that he piles on you. Offer to read his insipid Jaws fanfiction or something. Bring him coffee ten times a day. Everybody calls him Cecil, he likes that– which is why you should too.”

 _Ugh_ , Maureen thought.  _Mr Palmer– Cecil’s Jaws fanfiction._

“He’s being asking me to beta for him ever since I came,” Maureen said. 

Michelle raised a brow. 

“What kept you from saying yes?” 

“I thought I’d be doing more meaningful work.” 

“People die doing  _more meaningful work._ ”

“I know, I realise now, but– you won’t believe this, at one point in time I was begging him to send me out. That was before I found the register, of course. I’m only alive ‘cos of the lack of news-worthy happenings in Night Vale, and Cecil couldn’t find anything to send me to.”

Michelle stared at them, and then slowly, she repeated what Maureen said. And then, pinching her forehead, “It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”   

“You’re going to go back tomorrow and beg Cecil to put you back on fanfiction duty,” she said, sternly. 

“I know, I know. I just thought– the recommendation letter.” Maureen banged their head down onto the table. 

“You’re working for a recommendation letter?” 

Maureen scowled, involuntarily. “I thought that was evident, seeing as I'm not getting paid.”

“You could have come work for me! Okay, so that’s not true, I don’t hire interns, I hate them, I would never– the point is, Cecil has never written a recommendation letter for anyone. What makes you think he’ll do it for you?” 

“That’s because all his other interns died,” Maureen pointed out. “He doesn’t know I need the letter yet, but I’m going to ask him for one once I finish the internship.” 

“You better check upfront if he will write it.” 

“It’s gauche to be upfront about this type of thing.” 

Michelle narrowed her eyes. 

“You better ask, ‘cos Cecil is never going to write you one, even if you throw yourself into investigating. He only ever writes eulogies for his interns. Never recommendations.”

“I’m still not going to ask, not right now,” Maureen said. Their pride didn’t allow it. Growing up, Maureen’s mom had placed a lot of emphasise on being proper, and now they couldn’t do basic things, like  _asking for a recommendation letter before the job was done_. 

“Okay,” Michelle said, her eyebrows raised incredulously. “Okay.” 

They made small talk, Maureen picking at the half of their sandwich while Michelle drew swirls on the condensation at the side of the drink. Maureen watched the sun sink lower into the horizon, its orange glow receding quietly. There was a period of time where the sunsets came with a loud and screeching shrill, but they were grateful the sunset was silent today. The glowing lights above Arby’s were a comfort to look at, at least. They looked like fireflies in the dark. Suddenly, Maureen realised something that should have come to them ages ago. A solution so simple that they had completely overlooked it. 

"Why can't I just quit, actually?" 

"Your contract with station management stipulates a minimum of ten weeks, terminated only by death," Michelle raised her eyebrow. "Which means, if you quit, you die." 

They sighed, and Michelle looked sympathetic. The moment of silence stretched on. 

“I’m glad you found me,” Maureen finally said to Michelle, balling their sandwich wrapper up. 

Michelle nodded, nonchalant. 

When they left the eatery, the red Arby’s sign was glowing. The shade of red made it look like the hat was bleeding, melting off the sign. It looked unimposing yet menacing, if that made sense, and Maureen shivered, thinking of unknown eyes in the dark. Thinking of how they could die tomorrow. And out of nowhere, they laughed, helplessly and unguardedly, the only response that made sense to them in the face of the absurdity.

“What’s funny?” Michelle didn’t get it. Of course she wouldn’t, having lived in Night Vale all her life. 

“I’m thinking about how lightly this town treats death.” 

“In your previous little seaside town, death isn’t everyday? That must be nice. I live everyday knowing it could be my last.”

Michelle sent Maureen back to their house on her bike. Maureen remembered resting their head on Michelle’s shoulder, and not much else. Under the twin headlights of the motorcycle, the bronze sand was a startling white. Maureen felt lost in their thoughts. The cool desert wind blew against their skin, and shivering, they clutched onto Michelle for dear life. This time, the leather on Michelle’s back was cold, as if the warmth from the afternoon had been sapped out of her. 

“You okay, Maureen?” Michelle called. 

“Yeah,” Maureen said, pensive. They closed their eyes for a moment. 

Maureen didn’t even recognise the streets surrounding their house. When Michelle pulled up to the front of their drive-way, it took a while before the twisting shapes of the house resolved itself into something familiar. 

“Here’s my number,” Michelle said, scribbling onto a slip of paper and pressing it into their hand. “Text me if anything comes up. You can find me at the shop, too.” 

Maureen stared at the long chain of numbers, suddenly feeling too tired to comprehend anything. The numbers swam into each other, and they closed their fist. 

“Get some sleep,” Michelle said, peeling the helmet off their head and patting them gently on the shoulder. 

She revved the engine again, and drove off into the night in a cloud of dust and sand. As Maureen stared unseeingly at her exhaust gas, they realised that their sword was still in the trunk of the bike. 

This broke their reverie. Cursing, they waved at Michelle’s tail-light to stop. But she was too far away to see. Maureen watched the tiny pin of red light disappear, and sighed. 

Maureen trudged up the stairs, peeling off layers of clothes like a lizard shedding skin. Lying in bed, Maureen wondered what sort of deal Michelle had struck to escape her internship. What she had lost in order to procure her freedom. Turning on their side, their mind drifted to their own situation: trapped in an ineffable contract, unable to leave. The benevolent image of Cecil in their mind started to warp and distort, and Maureen was reminded of the orbituaries Cecil had narrated in his cool, distant way.

_To the family of Intern Maureen…_

When sleep came, it was uneasy. Maureen woke up with heavy eyelids and a pounding headache, their brain screaming for them to go back to bed. For a few seconds, they could not place the sinking feeling in their chest, until they remembered. Meeting Michelle, a few moments of flirtation, perhaps, and her heavy pronouncement. 

 _He only writes eulogies for his interns. Never recommendations_. 

Maureen supposed it was luck shining down on them that they had survived so far into the internship, luck that nothing of significance or news-worthy had transpired in the town. Luck that they had been put on duty feeding Khoshekh, instead of evaporating to death somewhere. Then, luck again that Michelle had recognised them in the record shop. They pulled on a button-down shirt, and resolved to never leave the station again. 

At the start of their shift, they went to the break room and did something they had never done before: they took the coffee grinder, placed the beans in the receptacle, and pressed down hard. Draining away the blood, they added hot water, and a dash of creamer. Staring at the bubbles slowly rising and popping in the cup, Maureen fell into a stupor, brain stiff from a lack of sleep. Maybe they should have added more. Maybe they made coffee the wrong way. Maybe the water wasn't hot enough. How did Cecil like his coffee again? They shook their head, taking a deep breath and resolving themself.

“ _Cecil_ ,” Maureen said, knocking on the recording studio door. They hardly gave Cecil time to respond before entering, and when Cecil Palmer shifted in his swivelly chair to look at them, they forced on a smile. They felt their head buzz, dizzy from adrenaline.

“Oh,” Cecil said, surprised. He turned in his swivelly chair away from the microphone to face Maureen. “Intern Maureen!”

If he was surprised by the use of his first name, he didn’t show it. 

“How’s your boyfriend?” Maureen asked, smile still stuck on their face. “I brought you coffee.” 

“Carlos is very good, thanks,” he said, accepting the mug from Maureen absent-mindedly. 

He stared at Maureen, and then at the coffee. Raising one eyebrow, he took a careful sip. 

“You’re being very kind today, Maureen,” he said. 

And then, because Cecil Palmer was of the habit of unsolicitedly narrating his personal life, he swivelled back to face the microphone. 

_Listeners, Intern Maureen has just brought me… coffee from the break room, in an unexpected bout of kindness. I ask them what they want– you know, kids these days never do acts without expectations of reciprocity…_

He covered the microphone, and turned to her again, incredulously. “Is there anything you want, Intern Maureen?”  

“What I want,” Maureen said, feeling like their jaw was never going to unclench itself and feel normal again, “is to take up the offer and help you read your Jaws fanfiction.” 

Cecil’s brows shot up. Maureen knew this was a complete turn from when they had refused to read his fanfiction, asking for  _real work_. Now they prayed that Cecil would accept their offer without any questions. 

“I realise that beta-ing your fanfiction is very much real work, just like going out for scopes.” Maureen said, extending their hand towards Cecil. “Let me help.” 

*** 

 _Maureen: Hey Michelle, this is Maureen. Thanks for helping me._  
_Maureen: I think I left my sword in your trunk._  
_Maureen: May I have my sword back?_  
Michelle: sorry bout that. wednesday? arby’s again? :)

When they arrived at the Arby's, Michelle was already there. Their sword was placed plainly in the centre of the table, glinting under the fluorescent light. Maureen supposed only in Night Vale would this not draw any attention. 

“So?” Michelle said, stirring her smoothie, gesturing for Maureen to take the sword. And then she pointed at the unobtrusive microphone tucked away at the edge of the able. Maureen would not have noticed it if Michelle had drawn their attention to it. 

“Mind if I record this session?” 

Maureen could not find any possible objection, and nodded. They could not figure out any possible motivation, either. 

“Have you done as I said?” 

“Offer to read his fanfiction? Pour him coffee?” Maureen made a face. They produced a thumbdrive from the pocket of their jeans. 

“Oh my god!” Michelle’s eyes widened to comical proportions. “This boggles the mind.” 

“Do you think I could blackmail him with his? Threaten to upload his fanfiction, in return for giving a damn about my safety?” 

Michelle laughed that same tinkling humorous laugh, and suddenly Maureen wished that they were this funny, all the time. 

“You can’t blackmail him. You think he doesn’t voluntarily upload his own fanfiction?” 

Maureen groaned, and wondered the same question they had been mulling over:  _what kind of deal had Michelle made?_ They pulled out their old laptop, and Michelle scooted closer to see.

Staring over the top of their laptop, they felt like they couldn't verbalise the question, and watch Michelle’s face drop. They just couldn’t. 

“Let’s get to it,” Michelle said brusquely, as the first page loaded. 

And then the moment was over, and they both turned their attentions to the flickering screen.  

“Ew.”

Michelle had more than a few choice words to say about Cecil’s writing. Whenever they got to a particularly bad patch of flowery language, she read it aloud in a sing-song voice, quietly mocking. When Maureen got home that night, their head was swimming, Michelle’s gleeful voice reverberating in what little space their brain tenanted. They dressed for bed, thoughts sloshing slowly in their head. The pleasant ebbing thoughts of spending time with Maureen. The distress of having to read your employer's best approximation at describing a curvacious leg. The mystery of Michelle’s past as an intern. 

When Maureen went in to the station the next day, they must have looked content, because Cecil’s eyebrows were raised skeptically as Maureen placed the coffee cup in front of him. 

“Someone looks happy,” Cecil said suspiciously, clutching the cup cautiously one finger at a time. “Two days in a row! You haven’t poisoned my coffee, have you?” 

There was a moment’s pause where Maureen’s mind treacherously supplied images of Cecil slumped over after taking a single sip of coffee, and then Maureen tearfully going to station management and shouting at the door to terminate their contract since their boss was dead. They forcefully wrenched their thoughts back. 

“Of course not, Cecil,” Maureen says belatedly, laughing awkwardly. “I would never.” 

They turned and wandered away before Cecil could say anything, and walked to sit at their desk. Turned on the computer and pulled up Cecil’s fanfiction. Cecil sat at his desk consideringly for a moment, before calling across the room, “Hey, Intern Maureen– you were talking about news scopes– something came up. Can you go get the scoop on the mauling by the wildebeests in the Whispering Forest?” 

“Sorry,” Maureen said, pretending to stare hard at the page of gibberish in front of them. “I would love to go, but I’m really, really, really busy editing your fic. It’s intriguing, Cecil.” 

Maureen thought they were going to puke if they said the word “really” again. They swished their fingers across the keyboard in a simulacrum of typing to accentuate their point. 

_...by the time she realised ifjdhhahajfk fjjdjao kfofigidus fjjd djndwooq pfifiajtng t was too late to do anything, the shark had already…_

Cecil looked grudgingly impressed. 

“Alright then,” he said, grumbling slightly. “I guess it’s fine as long as you’re applying yourself.”

***

One day, on one of those really slow days when nothing was moving, Maureen’s mind drifted to one of their favourite recent topics to drift to. They thought of Michelle’s sombre expression in the diner. And then, of her saying  _Cecil doesn’t remember me, I got out alive_.  

“Hey, Cecil,” Maureen said, floating past Cecil, who was probably daydreaming of Carlos. Because that was the way he was. “You know Michelle?” 

“The owner of Dark Owl Records?” Cecil drawled, attempting a breastroke, his long arms slicing through the air. “Who doesn’t?”

Maureen waited for him to continue. But he lazily floated out of the room without another word, and Maureen decided not to push the matter. They turned back to the computer, and pretended to look busy until five o’clock came and they could go home to warm sheets, heated by the sun. Everything in Night Vale was warm, and they remembered Michelle in her leather jacket, on that first day. _Perhaps they would drop by the record shop and watch Michelle close up shop_ , they thought languorously, _if they weren’t so tired.._. 

Between going to the station twice a week, and working on their summer graduation project, Maureen found themself at Michelle’s record shop in their free time, which meant they spent most of their time there. Business was often slow, but Michelle didn’t seem to care. She was always on her computer, with her earphones in and launchpad plugged in, fingers flying across the squishy buttons in a blur of bright colours, and on some days the chiming of the bell at the front of the shop forced her out of her reverie with an impatient sigh. She would gesture like she was swatting at a fly,  _Maureen could you take the customer please?_ and Maureen found themself having to search through the store inventory for the rare out-of-print 1955 recording of the seance with Alan Turing, or for a more recent (but no less rare) album of  _Thumpcore 3 by Michelle Nguyen._

The few returning customers she always made an attempt to greet fondly (or as fondly as she could), but Michelle had no patience for those who came looking for Billboard Hits. And it seemed like most people knew not to. The more time they spent at the shop, the more Maureen understood why Michelle had found it strange that they had asked for Paramore. The shop usually put on atmospheric music:  _Thumpcore 2_ , or  _Jumping on the Sand_ , some produced by Michelle, others procured elsewhere. Maureen thought they would have found this odd, but it was strangely relaxing to hear the muffled sounds echo through the shop– definitely an acquired taste, though. Leafing through the records, they discovered titles which looked like they had been self-produced, titles that sounded like Michelle’s journal entries.

“Editing Jaws fic at Arby’s?” Maureen pulled out a disc one day, titled  _editing j@ws fic @ arby’s_ , with the “i”s dotted with crosses. And suddenly, the microphone that day at the diner made sense. The cover was of the movie poster of JAWS, with Cecil’s face manipulated digitally over the face of the swimming woman. 

“Those are not for sale,” Michelle said, her voice not unkind, “at least, not to you.” 

“So everyone but me can buy a recording of _our_ conversation?” 

Michelle laughed. “That’s how it works.” 

Maureen sensed that the conversation was over, and returned to their rifling. And then, a while later, “Michelle?” 

“Yes?” 

“How do you make your music?” 

“I take samples from around me, and I incorporate synth into the recordings. Or like, whatever.” Here, a vague gesturing of hands. 

Maureen turned their attention back to leafing through the records, until suddenly their hands stilled.

On a vinyl was a picture of a fractured rainbow, sliced in two by a masculine woman who looked like a re-imagining of Joan of Arc in chainmail. The title,  _a broadsword cleaving through light._

They were reminded of their sword-wielding practice, before they had moved to Night Vale. Wrenched forcibly back to training in a studio in some faraway place, gripping the sweaty leather of the hilt and seeing through a black visor, with images fractured and dimmed as if seeing out of the grid of a fly’s eye. Of learning to parry, to yield. One of the things that they had loved most about wielding a sword was the metallic resonance of the blade as it connected with another sword, or even the audible swish of the blade as it sliced through the air. The adrenaline coursing through them as they ducked and kneeled and side-stepped, the dull pain from the whack of the blade or the blunt thrust of a hilt into their side. Their pulse hammering as they shook the sweat out of their eyes, the way a dog shakes water out of its mane. 

The vinyl spoke to a part of Maureen that they thought had lain dormant ever since their sword became a mere accessory to them, to be slung carelessly on their hips. Ever since they had given up sword-fighting. In the crinkling of the wrapper, Maureen thought they heard an incessant whisper.  _Bring me home. Pick up your sword._

Maureen looked up in a daze, and realised Michelle had been watching them handle the disc. They would have felt embarrassed, if Michelle had not looked so unimaginably tender and proud. 

" _a_ _broadsword cleaving through light, by Janet Mock, 1988_ ,” she said. “Music really does do something for all of us, doesn’t it?” 

When Maureen didn't reply, she said, “Moments like yours are why I run my shop,” and Maureen thought that they understood, really, they did. 

***

On other days, when the shop was empty and Michelle didn’t feel like doing anything, she would come out from behind the counter and bolt the doors, and get out some mats from the storeroom. The mats always smelt slightly musty, but Michelle would whack them a few times and Maureen would believe her when she said they were clean, even as they watched the dust motes rise. Then would lay down together on the hardwood floor, beneath the black lights, and after a while Maureen would be able to stop thinking of how dusty everything was, and focus on the sensation of the stringy fur under their elbow. And they would talk if Michelle wasn’t reading. Drink minty water as the air-conditioning whirred and blew cold wind at them. 

Michelle had a few thick tomes stored on the shelves behind the register, and new books travelled in and out of her shop every now and then. Some were about music production and writing, but there were other volumes on a surprising variety of topics. They were always well-loved, some falling apart at the spine, and Maureen watched Michelle leaf through them and noted the brown dots like liver spots on the pages.

“Do you get them from the library?” Maureen had asked. 

Michelle, pulling a face, had said, “God no, not the municipal library. The local book club has a shelf of second-hand books. I borrow them from there.” 

She turned over on her back, holding the book she was reading against the black light. Maureen wondered how she could see. Against the dim light, the cover spelt out  _Howl’s Moving Castle_ by  _Diana Wynne Jones_. 

“It’s about a girl disguised as an elderly cleaner and a wizard and his fire demon.” she said, seeing Maureen looking. Her voice was muffled by the book. 

“You know how it ends?” 

Michelle paused. “Yes. I've read it so many times I can recite the passages for what they are. The girl gets together with the wizard. I like to imagine they’re both lesbians.”

“Of course,” Maureen said, because, _well_ ,  _of course_. They understood, watching Michelle. Tracing the movements of her gentle chubby fingers as they idly wandered against the page, stopping every now and again at a particular passage. 

“I like it,” Michelle said, turning a page, the crisp flip audible, “because the wizard regains something precious at the end. I imagine that must feel unspeakably relieving.”

Michelle sounded like she has read the book over and over, and Maueeen wondered how it felt to know something so intimately. Wondered how many afternoons like this had passed, with Maureen lying on her back in the middle of the record shop. How many times the book might have slipped from her grasp to land on her face. In their mind’s eye, they could see it: the swinging golden needles of a clock, the seasons turning back as images of the sun rising and setting compressed itself into a single film. And then, a younger Michelle on her stomach on the same mat (except cleaner), flipping through the book for the first time. The wonder in her eyes. 

On those days when they were at the shop and stayed until the moon came out and Michelle locked the doors, they would wander home half-delirious and have close to no recollection of what happened during the day, except for the vaguest contentment and fulfilment of having spent it next to Michelle, with their hands brushing occasionally. When they touched, Michelle was always so cold under the air-con, but she never seemed to mind. Only the moon was privy to those private thoughts of theirs: as the moon cast her pale light onto their pillow, Maureen would always be seized by the most mysterious moods, romantic and wild thoughts that would rampage through their mind like wild migrating boars. And they would have to fight the urge to go gallivanting through the streets of Night Vale at eleven P.M. Sometimes, Maureen was tempted to give in, to see where this spell would take them.

But deep down in their heart of hearts, they knew they would wind up below Michelle’s apartment, crying and singing as the moon quietly urged them on with her liquid beams. In their mind, they saw themself playing a guitar, their fingers strumming up and down eloquently, producing god-like notes they could never manage in real life. They saw Michelle peek out from her window, surprised but not annoyed (in their fantasy, Michelle’s neighbours did not object to someone strutting below their building in the middle of the night: for all they cared, those other rooms and blocks could be vacuous and Michelle could be living in a ghost town, it wouldn’t matter), and then Michelle would laugh and throw her window wide, and descend down as gently and as gracefully as  _Chang’E_ , the lady on the moon, floating down into their arms. They would elope on a horse like the old cowboys, and Maureen imagined that they would bring Michelle to see the sea, the oceans that Michelle didn’t think existed. Then they would bring Michelle cliff-diving, and show her the thrill of launching from a height and not having to fear death. 

And when the images got too vivid, too tempting to be ignored, they turned in their duvet, hiding their face away from the moonlight. They would fall into fitful sleep full of schemes and plots no less strange, and wake up wistful and longing. 

**Author's Note:**

> wlw blease interact
> 
> catch me on iambi-c.tumblr.com!


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